Backseat
by ChangedAgain
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Molly Adams' neglectful hunter parents mean that she ends up in the backseat of the Impala. Half-helpful, half-babysittee, the boys somehow don't want to send her home just yet. Mostly canon, just plus Molly. Watch out for smut!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Dean isn't mine, Bobby isn't mine, and the plot of this chapter is based fairly tightly on the TV series SUPERNATURAL. Molly Adams is mine, though. If you want her you'll have to DOUBLE DISCLAIM! HAHA!**

**Sorry, it's late and I'm batshit insane. Carry on, and enjoy!**

Chapter One

Leaving the scene of the last death behind, Dean quickly became lost in the winding residential streets of Greenville, CA. After ten minutes of driving, he still hadn't found a main road that could take him to a goddamned motel. He was exhausted from the hunt, broody over letting that teenager die, and he hadn't eaten since noon. It was three a.m. now. So we really can't blame him for hesitating a moment when he heard the scream. The shrill scream so many starlets in horror movies spend hours trying to imitate. The scream that could only accompany one of three things: a rodent sighting, the discovery of a wad of bubblegum in the hair, or a supernatural attack.

Because this was Dean Winchester's life, and we all know what a life that is, he had to pull over on the good chance that it was the latter of the three. And God help that bitch if she wasn't actually in danger right now.

He kicked open the door, and was promptly blasted in the chest with a round of rock salt. It was from across the house, so it didn't seriously hurt him, but _damn_ it hurt. And he wasn't exactly accustomed to being the one shot at.

"Son of a BITCH!"

The screamer pivoted in surprise, but only looked at him a second before she trained her gun back towards the staircase in front of her. Dean could tell she wanted her back to a wall, but the living room yawned in one direction, and that rickety set of stairs in the other. All was silent for the moment, and had Dean not been a hunter, he would have thought this girl just some maniac aiming a shotgun at hallucinations only she could see and hear. But then a newspaper on the coffee table rustled and flipped open behind her. She span, lightning quick, and Dean saw the terror in her eyes. She didn't tremble, but she twitched when he took a step forward, and every muscle in her body was stretched tight. Sweat beaded all over her skin, making her chilly in the cool air from the door Dean'd kicked off its hinges, not to mention the icy presence of the ghost.

After another moment of silence that made the girl's breath hitch to an even more hysterical level, she glanced over her shoulder for only an instant. "Who are you?"

"That doesn't matter right now. Just turn to face me, I've got your back." He cocked his own shotgun unnecessarily to illustrate that he could do more than warn her if he saw the ghost.

She slowly turned, and he could see that she wasn't distrustful, just frozen with shock and terror. Distrust was a luxury she couldn't afford, not when he was human and her only source of help.

"Now, why is she after you?" Dean asked. Lots of civilians wouldn't be able to answer this question easily, but she was clearly . . . something other than a civilian.

"She wasn't. No, I think she's gone. She's not bothering with me. She got what she came for."

"Which was?"

"George."

"George who? She killed him?"

"George as in the owner of this house. Yeah, she killed him. I heard him shout, and I woke up, and I ran to his room, but then she turned on me and sort of . . . pushed me back . . . and by the time she was gone and I could get to George, he was dead, and-"

"Whoa, whoa." Dean stopped her right there, because her words were getting louder and louder and faster and faster, and becoming more sobs than words altogether. "She's gone. I think she's gone. But she might come back, so we should go."

"What do you mean, go? Go where?" The girl asked, eyes wide.

"We'll stay in a motel, and on the way you can tell me what's going on, and tomorrow we'll find this bitch's remains, salt'em, burn'em, and be done with it."

The girl only shook her head. "George already did that. Months ago. Something else is keeping her here."

"Shit. Well, like I said, tell me all about it in the car. It's not exactly safe here."

"And it's safe for me to get into a car with a stranger, and leave the place my parents expect me to be?"

"I'm not some sort of serial killer. But it's up to you whether you come with or not." He turned to leave, knowing she'd follow.

When he was at the door, she hesitantly asked, "can I pack a few things?"

"Do you really want to go up there? We'll come back tomorrow anyway."

"Okay." She slipped on some worn flip-flops at the door and followed him out to the Impala. Being behind him, she couldn't see the WTF look on Dean's face. You know the one. The "who the hell is this chick?" look.

Once they were safely in the Impala and on the road, it was time to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: DISCLAIM DISCLAIM DISCLAIM. Declaim. Unclaim. Inclaimatism. Anticlaim (insert all other negating prefixes here)claim. Dean and most of the plot AREN'T MINE at ALL.**

**Molly, however, lives in my closet when she's not busy eating fast food with Dean. Just so's ya know.**

**And teeheeehee my dog just ate some peanut butter. Dang that's cute. Holy crap I just had an idea. Who wants to see Dean eat peanut butter! It'd be hilarious. We'll write to Kripke, but I'll see what I can do, too. Don't let me forget. **

**And without FURTHER ado, here we are with chapter two! (And that rhymed really beautifully, just sayin')**

Chapter Two

-Still Pre-Season One-

Dean opened his mouth to ask her who she was, who this 'George' was, etcetera, etcetera. But then he saw the look she was giving him, the searching squint.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" He asked, eyes barely on the road at all.

"You look familiar," she admitted.

"You don't."

"But you . . . you _really_ look familiar. And you're a hunter, obviously. So it stands to reason that I have met you before."

"Because you're a hunter, too."

"Well. My parents are."

"Who are they, then? Maybe I do know 'em."

She only continued to squint at him, biting her lip as though berating her brain for something just at the periphery of understanding.

"You're not a demon, are you?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"No, I'm not. Why would you think that?"

"Because, if I had a nickel for every demon that's tried to get to me by possessing a hot girl . . ." He shrugged. "And after that last time, I think I ought to be a bit more cautious."

"You mean you fell for it?" The girl laughed.

"She didn't do anything demonic. I mean, she was a bit slutty, but that's no-"

"Oh my God, did you sleep with her?"

"Only once! I had no way of knowing, seriously. I mean, I don't go around splashing holy water on girls I pick up at bars. And it's not like she was part of some big evil scheme."

"Then what did she want?"

"It was, uhm, a bet."

"Excuse me?"

Dean's face felt hot. "She had a bet with her demon friends that she could screw a hunter. Wasn't even going to try to kill me afterwards."

"I'm torn between being disgusted and wanting to laugh my ass off," the girl said.

"I exorcised her straight away, and her buddies, too. And then showered. A lot," he defended, but the girl just snickered some more in the passenger seat. "If you tell a soul, I'll . . . I'll . . ."

"Don't worry, I owe you one for saving my life back there. Secret's safe with me."

"And I won't tell anyone you screamed like an ignorant housewife."

"Fair enough."

They drove for another few minutes. Dean could tell she still was staring at him, searching for the name on the tip of her tongue, until it seemed like she'd given up. Then, "DEAN! Dean Winchester! That's who you are. You're one of John's sons!"

"I could have told you that." He rolled his eyes. "But you still haven't told me who you are, and honestly I don't know how you can know me."

"I'm Molly! Adams. Molly Adams. As in-"

"Jake and Dana's daughter!"

"Yeah!"

"Holy crap." He relaxed, using a different tone now, slightly. "Wow. It's been a while."

"Yeah, I think you were like seventeen, last time I saw you."

"And how 'bout you? What were you, seven?"

"If that."

"Which puts you at what, now?"

"Oh, I'm sixteen."

"Ah." He nodded, eyes wide. "Okay. I'd've guessed higher. I mean, you were just a kid when I last saw you, and you're not a kid anymore, but actually you still are, I just didn't think-"

"Don't hurt yourself there, Dean. You're not used to being around younger girls who aren't either victims to be saved or potential fucks, I get it."

"Well, I wouldn't say . . . yeah, fair enough." Dean admitted. "Anyway, where're your parents at?"

"Hunting a vampire nest in NYC. Big one."

"And they left you with . . . family?"

"Sort of. Do you not know George? George LaGrange?"

"Oh, yeah. He and my dad were tight, back in the day." Then his brain processed it all. "Aw, shit. No, you don't mean- that ghost bitch just killed George?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I couldn't stop her. It was horrible . . . " she shuddered violently in recollection, or maybe from cold. Dean didn't find it that cold for October, especially since this was California. But then Dean's attire couldn't quite compare to Molly's. She wore a baggy hoodie over a clearly pyjama-designated t-shirt, but her equally baggy plaid pyjama pants looked thin and her almost-bare feet were damp from running across the lawn to get to the car.

This girl was not a hunter, that much was clear. Regardless of who her parents were, she wasn't raised like Dean was. She was just a sixteen-year-old girl who'd been woken in the middle of the night by a psychopathic ghost out for blood. She might have understood what it was, even how it might be stopped, but this wasn't a regular occurrence for her. This wasn't her lifestyle. A glance at her face, this time knowing what to look for, told Dean that she was absolutely terrified and trying not to show it. Trying very hard. So she was raised around hunters, or maybe with an older brother or two. That's where that stoic attempt to appear strong usually came from in young girls. Dean tried to remember if Jake and Dana had a son, but it'd been too long, he could barely remember briefly babysitting seven-year-old Molly.

Dean reached over to turn on the heater, because her shiver had become a constant thing. She'd been staring out the window, so his outstretched hand startled her and she flinched.

"Sorry." He said in his best calming-down-the-damsel-in-distress tone.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm all jumpy and paranoid and freaked out, but you're trying to help. Sorry if I've been . . . hostile."

"Hostile? Ha. Compared to the hunters I'm used to meeting, you've been a delight."

"That's 'cause, like I said, I'm not a hunter."

"Yeah. So, what, your parents don't want you into in yet 'cause you're too young? Won't let you go with them?"

"Something like that. Except, I don't actually want to be into it anyway. I prefer it the way it is. Except . . ."

"You'd rather not have to wonder whether they'll be coming home all the time."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Dean echoed. "So you just want to live a normal life. Go to school, followed by more school, followed by a preferably well-paying day job and if you're lucky, a loving hubby and two-point-five adorable kids. Maybe a minivan."

"Something wrong with that?"

"No. Just too familiar."

She didn't push it. Maybe because of his tone, maybe because she had her own thoughts to think.

"Now, this is going to seem really insensitive. And I know you've just suffered a loss, and been attacked and all, but I am _starving_. Mind if we hit . . . "Wally's Drive-Thru"? Ugh, even I don't like the sound of that. But I don't see a McDonald's, and I'm batshit crazy with hunger."

"Not at all. You're the one rescuing me, I'm not about to complain. And I'm actually kind of hungry, now that you mention it. Is there something wrong with me, that ghosts and death make me hungry?"

"Maybe. But the same thing happens to me. And you're probably in a bit of shock, so sugar and grease will do you good." He pulled into the empty all-night drive-thru.

"Welcome to Wally's, can I take your order?"

"Yeah. I'll have the . . . double mushroom cheeseburger with bacon. Make that a meal with Coke. And do you have those little apple pies?" The zombie-kin woman behind the window shook her head. Dean scowled. "Fine, that's all then, for me. And . . .?"

"I'll have the same as him." Molly said, barely looking up.

"WALLIIIIE! Two number eights with bacon!" The woman shrieked, making Dean's stomach recoil and think of banshees. He eyed her suspiciously, and she gave him a 'what the fuck are you looking at?' look.

"I'm genuinely surprised that there's actually a Wally working here." Molly whispered, still not looking up.

"Why? 'Cause you thought it was such a catchy name, they just had to use it?"

"Good point."

"So, you've been living on George's cooking for how long now?"

"Two weeks. Mostly my own cooking, actually, which was a relief for both of us. But still not exactly stuff out of Home Living magazine. Wally's cooking, believe it or not, might be a change for the better."

"Ah, not for me. I've been living off A&W, mostly. That's fine dining, that is. Truck-stop diners are usually a last resort for burgers. First choice for breakfasts, though, for some reason."

They heard some more yelling from inside, and Dean felt compelled to turn the radio on. But chances were, Molly wouldn't share his taste in music, and it might not be the best thing for shock and trauma, anyway.

"So, where's your dad at? And where's Sam, for that matter?" She shut her mouth and paled a bit at the look on Dean's face. He tried his best to wipe it away, because he knew what she was thinking. When he didn't say anything for a minute, she had to continue. "I'm sorry, I should know better than to-"

"It was just a question. And don't worry, they're both fine. I think. Dad's on an extended hunt, should hear from him soon. And Sam . . . Sam's not around anymore. He's at Stanford, living a 'normal life'."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She repeated. "Do you . . . still talk to him often?"

Banshee-woman handed them their food with an air of 'now get the hell out of here', and instead of answering Molly's question, Dean checked to make sure their order was right and drove away.

"None of my business, anyway. Wow, that smells really good." She took a sip of her drink, probably testing her stomach to see if it was too anxious to tolerate food.

Dean lifted his own drink out of the cardboard tray and nudged it against hers in her hand. "To George. And to Wally's."

"No, don't toast this godforsaken hellhole."

"I thought it smelled good . . .?"

"Taste your coke."

He did. "It tastes just fine – oh. It's Pepsi! Those evil sons of bitches!" he was being sarcastic, actually. He didn't mind Pepsi so much.

"When you ask for Coke and they're a Pepsi-serving establishment, they're supposed to say 'is Pepsi okay?', thereby giving you the option of driving far far away or maybe torching the place. They are NOT supposed to just go ahead and press the Nastyjuice lever on the fountain pop machine and try to pass it off as something edible! Er, consumable." She spoke in a low, murderous voice.

"You just ranted for a full forty-five seconds with barely a breath in between . . . about the wrong brand of cola. I mean, you're very thorough in your dissatisfaction."

"Yeah, I guess I tend to do that ranting thing when I'm anxious. Or tired. Or caffeinated. Or angry. Or excited. Or . . . most of the time."

He tried another mouthful of his 'Nastyjuice'. It wasn't so terrible, but he humoured her. "So, what do you think, demons?"

"Wally, maybe. But his wife's a banshee."

"I know, right?" He had _just_ been thinking that. Then he caught himself. He sounded like a teenager. Funny how being around one could do that. He even felt like it- a bit giddy and high-strung. That was probably mostly from it being the middle of the night, and there being precious little in his stomach. "Are you tired? We can hit the hay when we get to the motel, and talk about the case in the morning . . . "

"No. God, no. I don't think I can sleep. Probably never again. But if you're tired, I mean, it is almost four in the morning, I can just watch TV or whatever. Don't feel obligated to stay up or anything."

"No, I don't mind. I'd like to figure out our next move with the ghost, anyway." He shoved a bunch of fries into his mouth, and Molly winced as he drank more of his pop. "Well, I'll need the caffeine, won't I?"

"I guess. Just-" he drank some more, and she turned away with two fingers against her forehead as though he was doing something disgusting. "I can't watch. Have mine, too."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So, Comfort Inn, or Super 8? It's on somebody else's credit card, as is this meal, so don't worry."

There was a lot he still wanted to ask her, but it didn't feel safe being out on the streets. Once they had some nice, thick salt lines between them and the outside (and that ghost) he'd feel a lot more talkative.


	3. Chapter 3

**For future reference, don't bother reading my disclaimers unless you're really bored. I'm long-winded and again, batshit insane. Just read the boldy parts, alike-a-this, because they're intended for you, dear reader! Oh, and, the chapter. Maybe read that, too.**

**Thanks much for reading thus far, everyone =)**

Disclaimer: without overtly objectifying the boys, let me just say that I do not command or own them in any sense, and hold no harness (teehee) on their awesome might, no rights to their persons, accomplishments, or beautiful, beautiful cars.

There we go, hardly any objectifi- wait. Plenty of objectification on the poor lads, but not too much of a _smexual_ nature. Okay, goal accomplished. But I'm going to smexually objectify Molly all I want, okay?

Here goes with the chapter, anywho. Oh, and in the second sentence I say 'per se'! HA! I feel like a loser vampire kid.

Chapter 3

-Still Pre-Series-

Molly had always been good at organization. Not _cleanliness_, per se. Just . . . quantifying. Recording. Tracking. She did it on paper, on hard drives, simply her brain if necessary. Molly just didn't like the thought of forgetting anything, ever.

One of the things she felt compelled to organize, usually, was case files. For hunts. Whenever her parents returned from one, she'd ask them all about it and make a document about in on her mom's laptop. She generally copied them onto her father's computer directly after, keeping a copy for herself if it was an interesting case.

Dean didn't know it yet, but Molly was making a case file in the wee hours of the morning. After they'd compared notes on the ghost, he'd crashed, telling her to feel free to surf on his laptop if she couldn't sleep. Bored of the internet and nowhere near sleep, she couldn't help herself. His laptop was nearly empty, and organization could never be a bad thing, could it? Especially since she password-protected everything to do with the supernatural, to keep it from any civilians who might get their hands on it.

In Documents, she made a Cases folder, inside of which sat eight empty subfolders. (Thank God it wasn't a Mac, Molly would've been lost.) Ghosts, Demons, Vampires, Witchcraft, Shape-changers, Gods/Demigods, Humans, and Miscellaneous.

Molly then shook out her hands, ignored her exhaustion, and started a new document with the current date. Then,

_Name: Evelyn Morrow_

_Category: Ghost AND Witch_

_Lived: 1832-1870_

_Location: Greenville, CA_

_Crimes during life: Killed husband, Richard Morrow, using witchcraft_

_Cause of death: Suicide via witchcraft_

_Crimes after death: None proven, many linked._

Molly then listed all the murders. Each revolving somehow around a female descendant of Morrow's, most not far from Greenville. The family tree had a pretty high casualty count associated with it by the time Molly reached the most recent records, yet most of the family's members –at least the women- lived to ripe old ages. Funnily enough, sixteen out of the nineteen victims had been males. Out of those, twelve had had serious trouble with the law and a history of abuse and divorce. Until marrying, dating, or otherwise crossing paths with a great(to however many degrees)granddaughter of Evelyn Morrow.

The deaths were mysterious. Labelled by different sheriff's departments as Cult Worship, Witchcraft, or just plain Unsolved Murder Cases. The husband of Evelyn's great niece Cecile- found in his garden with over three hundred bee stings across his chest, neatly spelling out the word 'CHEATER'.

One week in the sixties, Emily Peyton goes to the police claiming she'd been 'attacked'. The report practically stated that if the inexperienced deputee had been comfortable putting 'rape' on such an important document, he would've. As it was, they encouraged Emily to drop the case and avoid putting her family through the shame of it all. Six days later, Emily's boyfriend –the accused- was found hanging from the thirty-foot-high rafters in his family's lakeside cabin- with every inch of his skin removed.

Most recently: In 1998, six children were found dead in a girls' bathroom at school. One bound upright in each stall. Three were boys; they had their throats slit. The three girls required a more thorough autopsy to determine why they weren't breathing. The astonished coroner didn't want to say it, but the results were undeniable. With no abrasion whatsoever to the skin or chest cavity, the girls' hearts were cooked, _burnt_ within their chests.

This last one Molly was more familiar with. George had taken it on years ago. And it ended up being the death of him. He'd come to Greenville and done some digging until he found a suspect: Jenna Dalton. She went to school with the six victims. As it turned out, they were all fairly wealthy, popular, and/or gorgeous. Jenna was none of these things. George guessed (correctly) that they'd been bullying her. Perfect motive. First he suspected that she'd been dabbling in Witchcraft, so he went and had that 'talk' with her, pressuring her to turn herself in. Then he made the connection to her ancestor, Evelyn Morrow, and realized that he was dealing with something far more sinister. Terrified at what he'd done in harassing an innocent girl who happened to have a vicious ghost looking after her, he promptly located, salted, and burned the remains. After that, he thought he was safe. George realized, at this point, that he was a little old for the job, so he quit. He ended up settling down in Greenville because he liked the town, plus that Dalton girl and her parents had moved away. Shortly thereafter, Molly Adams' parents saw his relatively stable home as a perfect place to drop Molly for a while.

Meanwhile, all over California, Evelyn Morrow continued to attack. She was killing more and more frequently as the weeks wore on, her rage rising to a fever pitch. The victims all still had some sort of connection to her descendants, but some of them were more of a stretch. A neighbour's cat pisses in a descendant's flowerbed; the cat and owner are both found, dead, several feet below ground in their backyard, with the sod and landscape entirely undisturbed. Professor gives a Morrow descendant a 'please explain further next time' comment on her essay, he's found having apparently drowned in red ink. And so on and so forth. Molly had to admire Dean's thoroughness in discovering all this, and was glad to be recording it. It was fascinating, if not nice bedtime reading material.

And, yesterday. Evelyn killed a young boy just a few blocks from George LaGrange's house (an indignant mother told Dean that this little boy had cut her daughter's 'beautiful auburn curls' with safety scissors at school), and stabbed the kid's older brother just for good measure. Then she moved in for the kill on George himself. The best guess Molly and Dean had was that she was biding her time, lulling him into a sense of security. This was not typical ghost behaviour. She was smart. She knew that George, as a hunter, presented a danger to her. She probably also knew that Dean could kill or harm her, too, which is why she didn't pursue the plan of killing Molly after he showed up.

Her being so self-preserving was probably linked to what she _was_. Ghostwitch. That was weird enough. But it seemed that she became a ghost _intentionally_. The records were sketchy, but as far as Dean and Molly could tell, her husband beat the kids up a lot, and one night, while drunk, he accidentally killed their little girl. Evelyn, who'd been playing around with Witchcraft in a neighbourhood 'book club'-type coven, went mega-dark-magic-mode and killed him. Then, abandoning her five-year-old son, she killed herself, also with magic. All Dean and Molly knew of this was that there were certain signs of a ritual in the suicide, and it seemed that she used some sort of spell to ensure that she'd become a ghost. Never before had either Dean or Molly heard of something like that. But, Molly reasoned, she wanted to protect her own from 'abusive bastard men'. Dean had looked at her funnily at that, but she only shrugged and said she was 'getting into the head of the perp' which made him laugh.

Now, she sat back and admired her handiwork. The file was bursting with detail, and read almost like a horror novel. Also, it'd killed most of the dark hours of the night. It was four-thirty, and starting to get light out. Of course, now was the time her body chose to get sleepy.

She still woke up before Dean did, though.


	4. Chapter 4

A block of sunlight from where the curtains didn't quite meet was resting on Dean's face, across one eye and just brushing his mouth. Maybe that contributed to his waking up, but it took a few minutes. In which Molly guiltily watched him and tried not to wonder whether that sunbathed section of his skin was warmer than the rest. Come to think of it, _she_ was feeling a bit warm. But she looked back to the computer screen before he opened his eyes and turned his accosted head away from the light.

"Mmmph," he noted.

"Yes," said Molly

It took a few more minutes for him to realize he wasn't getting back to sleep, and that there were things to do. Supernatural things. Hunty things. When he opened his eyes again, he spotted a brown paper bag on the bedside table. Beside it stood a still-steaming Styrofoam cup. These were incentive enough to pull his torso upright and elicit an energetic yawn. He _did_ get more than six hours of sleep, as it was after eleven now. Then, confusion hit him. He looked back at the coffee and paper bag. Blinked a few times. _Where did those come from_? Then he remembered he wasn't alone, and promptly stopped scratching his stomach. "Whoa." He finally looked at Molly, who barely acknowledged him.

Abashed and feeling caught off guard (as anyone would after forgetting, upon waking up, that there was a semi-stranger of a sixteen-year-old girl sitting on the other bed in the room), he chose to look in the paper bag. "Apple fritters?" He asked with a tone that suggested shock, awe, and adoration.

"Yeah. They're good. Coffee's black, I hope that's alright."

He was about to shove a fritter in his mouth and say '_Yeah_ it's alright!', then his mind caught up with him. "Wait, you left the room?"

"Cafe's less than a block away."

"There's a ghost hunting us!"

"You're welcome."

He took a sip of coffee, still glaring at her. "Did you sleep?"

"A bit."

"Hey, it's eleven-twenty. Good time to call your parents." She gave him a look that clearly said 'yeah right'. He wasn't letting her off that easily. "We discussed this last night."

"No, you discussed it. I argued."

"Well, too bad. Call them."

"Like I told you, they won't come get me in the middle of a hunt."

"They should at least know where you are and what happened."

"I'm breathing; so they won't care."

"Don't make me beat you over the head with this cell phone."

"Fine. Give it here." She caught it and dialled. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Her mother's voice. _You've reached Dana and Jacob Adams. Leave a message."_

"Hi, mom and dad. It's Molly. The one that's your daughter. Anyway, so, uh, a ghostwitch killed George last night. I'm fine, I'm with Dean Winchester, still in Greenville. I imagine he's eager to get rid of me, so, are you guys almost done with that nest? Call this number back when you get this."

Dean looked down. "Well, aren't you just a bundle of emotion. Are you always that . . . detached with your parents?"

"No. I love my parents," she stated. "Eat another fritter, I'm taking a shower."

"No way, I want a shower, and you'll use up all the hot water washing your hair or whatever it is girls do in the shower."

Molly considered a sexual innuendo about 'what girls do in the shower', but Dean wasn't a male schoolmate and so it might not be appropriate. As much as he might seem like a friend of her age, he wasn't. "I'll be five minutes. Go on and time me."

Actually, Molly mentally timed her own shower, not wanting to make a liar out of herself. One minute to get the water temperature just right, another minute to scrub the sweat from her skin, two minutes to shampoo and rinse her dark, curly, kinda-short hair, and a last thirty seconds of decadent relaxation before she stepped out. Of course she had to put her dirty clothes back on, which was gross. She picked up yesterday's panties doubtfully just as a knock came at the door.

"Hey, uh, Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"D'you wanna borrow some clean clothes? They'll be miles too big for you, but . . ."

"That'd be great. Thanks." She went to the door, puffy white hotel towel wrapped tightly around her, and shyly took the scrunched-up-but-clean clothes from Dean before closing the door again. Her bra was just fine to re-wear, over which she pulled a huge cotton button-down shirt that somehow smelled of Dean _and_ laundry detergent. She reminded herself that she didn't know what Dean smelled like, and that people didn't even have a scent beyond sweat and perfume/cologne. Neither of which she really associated with Dean. Next, she pulled the jeans on (forgoing underwear, which was squicky but not as bad as putting on dirty ones) and pulled the belt he'd given her tight, before rolling up the legs several times. She did the same with her sleeves. She looked at herself in the mirror, and felt that she'd simply shrunk. These clothes were carbon copies of the ones she had back at George's, just bigger. Of course, she had girly outfits as well(dresses, even) but reserved those mainly for school.

He smirked when she stepped out, hair plastered all over her face and neck and her old clothes bundled in her arms. She sat on the bed and roughly towelled her hair dry. Then she finished her own coffee and picked the laptop back up.

"What're you doing on there?" Dean asked conversationally.

She twisted it around to show him. He gaped at her filing system, without even seeing the extensive Evelyn-Morrow file she'd created. "Wow."

"It's not like you have to keep up with it after I've . . . gone back to my parents, but I just like keeping track of supernatural things. Makes a good reference for the future, instead of relying on memory all the time. And it's password protected with a random set of letters and numbers so no-one can get in but me. And, you, I guess, as it's your computer."

He just stared for a minute. "What's the password?"

"Five-J-five-R-T-eight-six."

"That sounds like a zip code! How am I supposed to remember that?"

"You just will."

"What's the significance of it? Boyfriend's birthday or something?"

"Yeah, I only date guys with random long strings of numbers and letters for their birthdates. Nah, like I told you, it's random. The best passwords always are. My password for school computers is always celine_dion and I'm not remotely a fan. It's all in thinking of something that nobody can guess because it has no meaning."

"You're weird, you know that?"

"Well, no one's ever messed with my password-protected stuff."

"Oh, you watch out. I'm writing that Celine Dion thing down and I'll go . . . screw up your assignments?"

"Ha. Good luck. It's July."

"Oh, that explains why you're not in school."

"Also, 'cause it's Sunday. How out of touch are you with the real world, Dean?"

"More than you want to know. Anyway, my turn to shower. And . . . thanks for doing that filing thing on the laptop. That's the sort of thing Sam might have considered at your age." He looked at the doorframe and then closed the bathroom door behind him. A moment later Molly heard the water run. She considered timing him and ridiculing him if he took longer than she had, but her heart wasn't in it after his last comment.


End file.
